The sky before the first great division was a single, vast blue plain, uncluttered by the borders of men or the smoke of their iron-works.
Through this endless clear expanse, Aneithra flew alone.
Her silver form moved like a solitary needle stitching together the quiet clouds, her heavy wings beating with a steady hush that sounded like cold tide over smooth pebbles.
Yet inside her chest, the calm of the air offered no peace.
The memory of the argument remained, sharp and stubborn, lodged deep beneath her ribs like a wooden splinter that refused to work its way out.
It was a tiny thing compared to the vastness of her heart, yet every slow beat pressed against it, keeping the pain fresh.
Foolishness.
He had spoken the word not as a query, but as a judgment passed down from his high ledge. It sat between her lungs, heavy and hot, refusing to dissolve into the quiet sky.
She kept her eyes fixed upon the distant horizon, coaxing her wings into a longer, harder stride.
